StarDate Podcast

The Moon lines up with the twins of Gemini this evening – the stars Pollux and Castor. Pollux is the brighter twin, and is closer to the Moon. The brilliant planet Jupiter is to the lower right of the Moon. Gemini has been around for thousands of years. Its roots trace back to ancient Babylon, as do those of many other constellations. All of them were recorded in one of the most important works of astronomy in the ancient world. Known as the Almagest, it was written by Claudius Ptolemy around the year 150. Ptolemy studied many fields, including astronomy, astrology, geology, and music theory. The Almagest is perhaps his most famous work. In it, he recorded the positions of a thousand stars, and included details on the motions of the Sun, Moon, and planets. He also discussed everything from eclipses to the length of the year. The book listed 48 constellations that were visible from northern skies – Gemini among them. The constellations weren’t given any borders – just the regions of the sky in which they appeared. And some barren regions weren’t part of any constellation. Over the centuries, astronomers shifted things around some. And they created constellations for southern skies as well. Finally, in 1930, they created an “official” list of 88 constellations. Each one was given precise borders. That gave every star a home – its own “address” in the universe. Script by Damond Benningfield

Hurricane season is whirling to life in the northern hemisphere. The giant storms twirl across the ocean, developing deadly winds, rains, and storm surges. As they grow, they trace a familiar pattern – cloud bands spinning counter-clockwise around the central eye. That spin is a result of the Coriolis effect. It’s caused by a combination of Earth’s rotation and its shape. Because Earth is a sphere, locations on the equator move more than 24,000 miles in 24 hours. Locations off the equator move a much smaller distance in the same time. So, as a storm moves across the northern hemisphere, its southern edge moves faster than its northern edge. This causes the storm to rotate counter-clockwise. The Coriolis effect is much more pronounced on the giant worlds of the outer solar system – especially Jupiter. It’s the biggest planet, and it has the fastest rotation – one turn in less than 10 hours. That combination deflects what normally would be north-south winds into east-west winds. They can blow at hundreds of miles per hour. They separate Jupiter’s atmosphere into wide bands. Individual storms – some the size of continents or bigger – spin through the bands, or along their boundaries – monster storms spinning through alien skies. Jupiter stands to the upper left of the Moon this evening. It looks like a brilliant star. The twins of Gemini are above the Moon, and we’ll have more about them tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

There’s a beautiful conjunction between the Moon and the planet Venus early this evening. Venus is the “evening star” – the brightest object in the night sky after the Moon. The Moon is a thin crescent – the Sun illuminates only a sliver of the lunar hemisphere that faces Earth. We can’t see it, but the Moon is moving farther from us – by about an inch and a half per year. It’s been moving away since it was born, when Earth was young. In fact, that shift was one of the clues that led to the leading theory of how the Moon was born. In the chaotic conditions of the early solar system, Earth was walloped by a planet about the size of Mars. That blasted debris into orbit around Earth. Much of that material quickly coalesced to form one or more moons. Today’s Moon is the only survivor. The collision caused Earth to spin much faster, so a day was much shorter than it is now. Gravitational interactions between Earth and Moon have slowed us down. But they’ve also caused the Moon to slide farther away. The process isn’t smooth – the Moon speeds up and slows down. And it won’t stay smooth in the future. Given enough time, the Earth-Moon system would reach a point when the same hemisphere of Earth would always face the Moon, and the Moon would stop moving away. But that time may never come. It could be so far in the future that the Sun will have expired – perhaps destroying Earth and its slip-sliding Moon. Script by Damond Benningfield

Many astronomical discoveries have come in stages – a series of “aha” moments where we learn more about the nature of an object. A good example is Messier 13, the Great Hercules Cluster. Under especially dark skies, it’s just visible to the unaided eye, so people have known about it forever. It looks like a faint, hazy star. But during the 1700s, the cluster was “discovered” several times. The first discovery was made by Edmond Halley. Using a small telescope, he came across it in 1714. He described it as “a little patch.” Charles Messier saw it a half-century later. He described it as “round, beautiful, and brilliant.” But, he wrote, “I am sure it doesn’t contain any star.” He made it the 13th object in his catalog. In 1779, though, William Herschel contradicted Messier. M13 “is a most beautiful cluster of stars,” he wrote. Many other discoveries have followed. They’ve told us that M13 contains hundreds of thousands of stars packed into a tight ball. And the cluster is ancient – 12 billion years old or older. Messier 13 is 25,000 light-years away. In early evening, look in the east-northeast for the Keystone of Hercules – a lopsided “square” of stars. M13 is between the two stars at the top of that pattern, a bit closer to the one on the left – a giant cluster that’s still producing amazing discoveries. Script by Damond Benningfield

Most of the stars in the Milky Way orbit the center of the galaxy in the same direction as all the other stars around them, and at about the same speed. But a few follow their own paths. An example is a star at the tip of the Guitar Nebula. The nebula is a bubble of gas with an outline that resembles a guitar. It’s in Cepheus, which is low in the north at nightfall. The king’s brightest stars form an outline that resembles a child’s drawing of a house. Don’t look for the nebula, though – it’s so faint that it wasn’t discovered until 1992. The guitar was sculpted by a pulsar – the crushed corpse of a mighty star. It spins once every two-thirds of a second, emitting a beam of energy that sweeps past Earth on each turn. The pulsar was born when the star exploded as a supernova. The explosion must have been off-center, so it gave the dead core a powerful kick. The pulsar is plowing through clouds of gas and dust at almost two million miles per hour. It leaves an expanding wake behind it, like a ship traveling across the ocean. That wake is what we see as the Guitar. But there’s more to the nebula than meets the eye. X-ray telescopes in space reveal a long, high-speed “jet.” It’s firing away from the tip of the nebula at a right angle to the nebula itself. The jet most likely is powered by the pulsar’s magnetic field, which funnels charged particles away from the pulsar – an interesting note from a celestial guitar. Script by Damond Benningfield

The Milky Way Galaxy is home to a few hundred billion stars. And on average, it gives birth to a couple of Sun’s-worth of stars every year. But a much smaller galaxy about 12 million light-years away puts the Milky Way to shame. It is spawning about 10 times as many stars per year. Like the Milky Way, Messier 82 is a thin disk, with spiral arms wrapping around a dense core. It’s less than half the size of the Milky Way. M82 is a starburst galaxy. It had a close encounter with another galaxy within the past hundred million years or so. That caused huge clouds of gas and dust to collapse, triggering the starbirth. The new stars are concentrated in the center of the galaxy, where astronomers have cataloged more than a hundred super star clusters. Each one contains hundreds of thousands of stars. Many of the stars are especially hot and massive, which makes the clusters especially bright. A strong “wind” of hot gas races away from that region. It squeezes the surrounding clouds, giving birth to more stars. But within another hundred million years, all the gas and dust will have been used up. Then, M82 will settle down to the same quiet life as the Milky Way. M82 is in Ursa Major. As night falls, it dangles below the upside-down bowl of the Big Dipper. It’s an easy target for small telescopes. We see it edge-on, so it looks like a small, bright slash. Script by Damond Benningfield

The brightest star of the Southern Cross is like a whole episode of “Dancing With the Stars.” It consists of perhaps six or more stars. They’re all twirling through their own ballroom, linked by the strong hands of gravity. Alpha Crucis is 320 light-years away. To the eye alone, it looks like a single point of light – the 13th-brightest star in the night sky. But binoculars or a telescope show two stars. Both of them are at least a dozen times as massive as the Sun, and thousands of times brighter. They’re so far apart that it takes about 1300 years for them to complete a single orbit around each other – a slow turn across the dance floor. But one of those stars is actually two stars on its own. They’re so close together that not even the biggest telescopes can see them individually – the second star reveals its presence only to special instruments. But it’s also bigger, heavier, and brighter than the Sun. The two stars are dancing to a faster tempo – one turn around each other every 76 days. Those three stars might have three more companions. They’re a long way from the first trio, and they’re not as impressive. But they appear to share a common motion through the galaxy with the brighter trio. That means the two groups could be gravitationally bound to one another – dancing a waltz that would require a hundred thousand years to complete one turn across the floor. Script by Damond Benningfield

The farther north you live, the less of the universe you can see. Earth itself blocks the view of a large swath of the southern celestial hemisphere. That’s the half of the sky that’s south of the celestial equator – the projection of Earth’s equator. So those of us in the United States miss out on at least part of the southern sky. One of the treasures we miss is Crux, the southern cross. It’s the smallest of the 88 constellations. But it’s also one of the prettiest and most prominent. Four of its stars are fairly bright, and they do form a shape that looks like a cross. If you include one more star in the pattern – the faintest of the five – the pattern looks more like a kite. It points the way to the south celestial pole. Not surprisingly, that pattern has played a big role in the skylore of many southern-hemisphere cultures. Several saw the cross as the footprint of a big bird. Others saw it as a stingray, the anchor of a giant canoe, or some other prominent object or animal. Today, Crux is featured on the flags of Australia, New Zealand, and Brazil. It’s also on the flag of the European Southern Observatory – which has a great view of the southern cross. From the United States, Crux is barely visible from the Florida Keys, far-southern Texas, and Hawaii. At this time of year, it’s quite low above the southern horizon in early evening – pointing the way to the celestial pole. More about Crux tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

Today, Saturn and its system of moons and rings look calm and peaceful. But things might have been much more chaotic in the fairly recent past. A collision between two moons might have destroyed one of them, changed the orbit of the other, and led to the birth of yet another moon and the planet’s rings. Researchers have been trying to explain some oddities in the Saturn system. The planet itself is tilted far more than it should be, for example. The biggest moon, Titan, follows a more lopsided orbit than expected. And the moon is moving away from Saturn by about four inches per year. A few years ago, a team proposed that Saturn once had another big moon, which the team called Chrysalis. Interactions between the moons might have kicked Chrysalis so close to Saturn that it was ripped apart, forming the rings. But this year, another team came up with a slightly different scenario. It, too, involves a second moon. It collided with Titan a few hundred million years ago, changing Titan’s orbit. Debris from the impact formed the present-day moon Hyperion. The activity caused two other moons to ram together as well. Both moons quickly re-formed, with the leftovers spreading out to form the rings as recently as 50 million years ago. This model explains many of the system’s oddities – bringing order to a chaotic arrangement. Look for Saturn near our moon at dawn tomorrow. The planet looks like a bright star, low above the horizon. Script by Damond Benningfield

Venus might be feeling a bit neglected. The last dedicated mission to the planet wrapped up its work two years ago. A couple of spacecraft have scanned the planet since then, but Venus wasn’t their main target. They were using the planet’s gravity to fling them toward their intended targets. But Venus exploration could tick up over the next few years. Several missions are being developed. Most of them are big and complicated, so they won’t be ready until the next decade. But a craft the size of a beachball could head for Venus as early as this summer. It’ll probe the planet’s clouds for signs of organic compounds – the chemistry of life. Venus Life Finder is a project of Rocket Lab and MIT – the first commercially developed mission to the planet. It’s a small, blunt cone. When it arrives at Venus, it will plunge through the planet’s clouds, shining a laser on the way down. The reflected light will reveal details about the cloud particles. Bits of organic matter might be set aglow. Some recent observations have hinted that the clouds could contain microscopic life. Life Finder won’t actually search for life, but it could tell us if the building blocks of life lurk inside the planet’s clouds. Venus is the “evening star.” It’s sneaking up on the star Elnath, at the tip of one of the horns of the bull. Tonight, the star is a little to the upper right of Venus. The planet will slip past it during the week. Script by Damond Benningfield

The eyes of the dragon shine a third of the way up the northeastern sky at nightfall. Eltanin is the brightest star of Draco, with third-ranked Rastaban just above it. They circle high across the north during the night, and stand in the northwest at first light. Although Eltanin looks brighter than Rastaban, that’s only because of their different distances. Eltanin is about 150 light-years away, while Rastaban is at 380 light-years. So if you lined them up side by side, Rastaban would shine about twice as bright as the dragon’s other eye. Rastaban is only about 65 million years old, compared to four and a half billion years for the Sun. Yet it’s already passed the end of its “prime” lifetime. That’s because it’s about six times as heavy as the Sun. Such massive stars “burn” through their nuclear fuel at a frantic rate. So Rastaban has already converted the hydrogen in its core to helium. Now, it’s probably getting ready to ignite the helium to make carbon and oxygen. That’s caused the star to puff up – it’s about 40 times the diameter of the Sun. That’s the main reason it looks so bright – there’s a lot of surface area to beam light out into space. Eventually, the nuclear reactions in the core will stop. The star’s outer layers will blow out into space. That will leave only the dead core – a cosmic ember as heavy as the Sun but only as big as Earth – closing one of the dragon’s bright eyes. Script by Damond Benningfield

A pair of eyes stares down from the northeast as night falls now – the eyes of Draco, the dragon. They’re to the upper left of brilliant Vega, one of the night sky’s most prominent stars. The brighter eye is the star Eltanin, the dragon’s leading light. The name means “the serpent,” because the star once represented the entire dragon. Eltanin is an orange giant. It’s a good bit bigger, heavier, and brighter than the Sun. That makes it easy to see even though it’s more than 150 light-years away. The star should get a lot easier to see in the coming millennia. That’s because Eltanin and the Sun are moving closer together. In about one and a half million years, they’ll be at their closest – just 28 light-years apart. Assuming Eltanin hasn’t changed much by then, it’ll be the brightest star in the night sky – about as bright as the current champ, Sirius. The other eye, Rastaban, is just above Eltanin. Its name means “head of the serpent.” It’s more than twice as far as Eltanin. It, too, is a giant, but it’s much bigger and brighter – a thousand times as bright as the Sun. So it looks only a little fainter than Eltanin despite the extra distance. The rest of Draco curves to the left and above the dragon’s eyes, and curls around Polaris, the North Star. The eyes stare in the opposite direction – toward Hercules, who killed the dragon before both of them were placed in the heavens. Script by Damond Benningfield

Last July, space telescopes recorded an event that sounds like the plot of a “B” horror movie: Zombie Versus Vampire. Spoiler alert: the vampire won. It drained away the zombie’s life’s blood – or make that its after-life’s blood. The encounter took place in a galaxy billions of light-years from Earth. Space telescopes detected a sudden flare-up in X-rays from the galaxy’s outskirts. The region also produced several short outbursts of gamma rays, the most powerful form of energy. At their peak, each burst produced as much energy every second as the Sun will emit in a billion years. Analysis revealed a possible explanation: a medium-sized black hole devoured a white dwarf – the “corpse” of a Sun-like star. Astronomers have seen similar encounters before. But most of them involved stars that were in the prime of life, so the stars were big. A white dwarf is only about as big as Earth, which is just one percent the Sun’s diameter. So a white dwarf is compact and extremely dense. Its surface gravity is strong, so it’s not easily disrupted. In this case, though, the white dwarf buzzed a black hole about 75,000 times the mass of the Sun. The black hole’s gravity ripped apart the white dwarf in one big bite. Debris swirled around the black hole. Magnetic fields fired some of it into space at almost the speed of light, creating bursts of gamma rays. The whole thing was over in a flash – as the vampire sucked the zombie dry. Script by Damond Benningfield

A massive star in the Andromeda Galaxy might have tried to blow itself to bits, but it failed. Instead, almost the entire star collapsed to form a black hole about five times the mass of the Sun. Astronomers discovered the possible misfire while combing through observations by NeoWise, a space telescope that wrapped up its work a couple of years ago. They found an object that brightened dramatically at infrared wavelengths, which are invisible to the human eye, then slowly faded again. Earlier observations at visible wavelengths showed a supergiant star, perhaps a hundred thousand times as bright as the Sun. But as the infrared peaked and faded, the visible light faded completely – the star simply vanished. The astronomers concluded that the event was a failed supernova. The star stopped producing nuclear reactions in its core, so the core collapsed. A shockwave plowed through the star’s outer layers, blasting their gas outward. In most cases, such a shockwave creates a titanic explosion – a supernova. But this blast wasn’t powerful enough to overcome the core’s gravitational pull. So almost all the gas fell back onto the core, making it massive enough to form a black hole. A little material did escape. It formed a wide disk of gas and dust around the dying star. Energy from the star made it shine brightly in the infrared – a short flare-up that waned as the supergiant star collapsed and faded from sight. Script by Damond Benningfield

More than 1.1 billion years ago, a pair of black holes staged a violent merger. As they spiraled inward, the black holes produced an outburst of gravitational waves – “ripples” in spacetime that rang across the universe. Detectors on Earth “heard” those ripples in January of last year. In fact, it was the loudest and clearest detection of merging black holes to date. Analyzing the signal has told scientists quite a bit about black holes, and about the laws of gravity that govern them. The frequency and duration of the gravitational waves revealed details about the black holes. It showed that when they merged, each of them was spinning. And each was about 33 times the mass of the Sun. But the total mass after they merged was only about 62 times the Sun’s mass – less than the combined weight of the individual black holes. The rest of their mass was converted to energy – mainly the gravitational waves. The aftermath of the merger was important as well. The merged black hole vibrated like a ringing bell. As it settled down, the “ringing” faded away. How it faded matched predictions made by General Relativity – the theory of gravity introduced by Albert Einstein and refined by many others over the decades. It was the strongest evidence to date that General Relativity really is the rule that governs black holes – and sends gravitational waves rippling across the universe. Script by Damond Benningfield

For a trip that’s out of this universe, just cross the event horizon of a black hole. Nothing that passes through an event horizon can ever come back out, so we don’t really know what goes on inside a black hole. But we can be pretty sure that it’s like nothing else in the universe. A black hole’s mass is concentrated in a single point, called a singularity. Its gravity is infinitely strong. But as the distance from the singularity increases, its grip weakens. Eventually, it reaches a point where the escape velocity equals the speed of light – the event horizon. Since nothing can travel faster than light, anything that falls through the horizon is trapped. It may be doomed to merge with the singularity. So the event horizon acts like the “surface” of a black hole. But it’s not solid – there’s nothing to ram into. Instead, it’s more of a boundary between the black hole and anything outside it. The distance between the singularity and the event horizon marks the size of the black hole. And as more stuff falls in, the black hole gets bigger. A black hole that’s 10 times the mass of the Sun spans about 35 miles. The supermassive black hole at the heart of the Milky Way spans 13 million miles. And the heaviest black holes yet seen are more than 40 times the size of the orbit of Neptune, the Sun’s outermost major planet – a wide entrance to an out-of-this-universe experience. More about black holes tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

Comet Halley’s loss is Earth’s gain. As the comet orbits the Sun, it sheds a bit of ice and dirt from its surface. That debris spreads out along the comet’s path. Earth passes close to that path twice a year. Some of the solid particles ram into our planet, adding a minuscule amount to Earth’s mass. For skywatchers, the intersection creates two meteor showers, as the comet dust vaporizes in the atmosphere. And one of them is under way now: the Eta Aquariids. The shower’s peak lasts for several nights, centered around tomorrow night. At its best, the shower can produce a few dozen meteors per hour. Halley is a chunk of rock and ice about seven miles in diameter. On average, it orbits the Sun once every 76 years, although that period varies by a few years. It’s been recorded in Earth’s night sky for more than 2,000 years. Edmond Halley linked some of those appearances in 1705, demonstrating that a comet can return to view multiple times. Halley also predicted the comet’s next appearance, in 1758. When it showed up at the time he forecast, the comet was named in Halley’s honor. Over the centuries, the comet’s orbit moves away from Earth a bit. Today, we’re several million miles from that path. As the orbit shifts away, we pick up less and less of the comet dust. That makes the meteor showers less impressive. So over time, the Eta Aquariids will slowly die out. Script by Damond Benningfield

Antares has played a big role in the skylore of many cultures. And it’s not hard to understand why. It’s quite bright, it has a fiery orange color, and it’s near the ecliptic – the Sun’s path across the sky. The Moon and planets are close to the ecliptic as well, so they periodically swing past Antares. In fact, the Moon snuggles quite close to it late tonight. In western skylore, Antares represented the heart of Scorpius, the scorpion. After Orion the hunter bragged that he could kill any beastie on Earth, the angry gods sent the scorpion to sting him to death. They then put Orion and the scorpion on opposite sides of the heavens, so one rises as the other sets. Antares and the surrounding stars also represented a scorpion in the mythology of the Maya and several other cultures. But others saw Antares differently. In China, it was the “fire star” – a description of its color. It and a couple of nearby stars represented the heart of a dragon. And in Hawaii, Antares was part of a fishhook used by the god Maui. The star itself is worthy of its reputation. It’s a dozen or more times heavier than the Sun, hundreds of times wider, and tens of thousands of times brighter – a supergiant star with some supergiant stories. Antares is just a skosh away from the Moon as they climb into good view tonight, by midnight. They’ll still be close as dawn twilight erases the scorpion’s mighty heart from view. Script by Damond Benningfield

The Sun faces a “degenerate” future. That’s not a value judgment – it’s physics. When the Sun can no longer produce nuclear reactions, its core will collapse. How far it collapses is limited by a type of pressure exerted by its atoms – degeneracy pressure. Today, the Sun is “fusing” atoms of hydrogen to make helium. When the hydrogen is gone, it’ll fuse the helium to make carbon and oxygen. But the Sun isn’t massive enough to extend that process, so its nuclear furnace will be extinguished. Fusion releases energy, which balances the pull of gravity. That keeps the Sun puffed up. Right now, it’s big enough to hold a million Earths. When fusion stops, gravity will win out. The core will shrink to the size of Earth itself. But it’ll still be about half as heavy as the present-day Sun. So a chunk the size of a sugar cube would weigh a ton. The dead core won’t shrink beyond that. That’s because the electrons in the core will exert their own pressure – degeneracy pressure. They can be squeezed only so much before they run out of “elbow room” and halt the collapse. That will leave a white dwarf – a dead cosmic cinder – to cool and fade over the eons. The galaxy is littered with white dwarfs, but none of them is bright enough to see with the eye alone. The closest one is a companion of Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky, which is low in the southwest as night falls – a star that faces its own “degenerate” future. Script by Damond Benningfield

For centuries, the people of the British Isles marked the beginning of summer not on the solstice, in June, but on May 1st. It’s a cross-quarter day, which comes about half way between a solstice and an equinox. In Scotland and Ireland, the date was known as Beltane. People built bonfires to celebrate the longer days, and held rituals to protect their crops and livestock. And in England, the date became known as May Day. People celebrated with village fetes, and they danced around the maypole. Dancers grabbed ribbons attached to the top of the pole, then circled around it, getting closer with each circuit. Especially tall maypoles were erected in an area of London known as the Strand. The last of these poles was removed 300 years ago. But it found a new life – supporting one of the world’s largest telescopes. The maypole was acquired by Isaac Newton, who had formulated laws of gravity and motion. In April of 1718, he had the pole moved to a park outside London for use by James Pound, an astronomer and clergyman. Pound had the use of a large lens created by another astronomer. The telescope was created by mounting the lens on the maypole. The eyepiece was on the ground, linked to the lens by a long wire. With that telescope, Pound measured the positions of the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. Newton used those observations to calculate the moons’ orbits – measuring a celestial dance around the maypole. Script by Damond Benningfield

The Moon passes through the bull tonight. The bull’s “eye” – the star Aldebaran – is off to the left of the Moon. The bull’s face and shoulder are even closer, represented by a pair of star clusters – the Hyades and the Pleiades. For the most part, you can’t tell the distance to an astronomical object just by its appearance. Something that looks quite bright might be close, but it might also be far away and especially bright. But you can tell something about the distances to the objects around the Moon tonight by their appearance. The Pleiades looks like a tiny dipper close below the Moon. It contains hundreds of young stars, some of which are hot and bright. But the cluster’s small size is a good indication of its distance – almost 450 light-years. The Hyades looks bigger. It forms a letter V that outlines the bull’s face. It looks a good bit more spread out than the Pleiades. But that’s largely because it’s only a third as distant. Aldebaran stands at the top left point of the V. It outshines all the other points. In part, that’s because it’s less than half as far – just 65 light-years away. So these prominent features really do tell us something about their distances. One other bright light stands directly below the Moon in early evening, and it’s the brightest of all: Venus, the “evening star.” Right now, it’s closer to us than anything else except the Moon. Script by Damond Benningfield

You might want to have the butter and the Mrs. Butterworth’s handy for this one – it’s all about pancakes. Some of them are as big as a major city. There are only two problems: They’re made out of dense volcanic rock, and they’re on the planet Venus. Venus is covered with many thousands of volcanic features – lava plains, cone-shaped mountains, and structures that look like crowns and spiders. Most of the features are old, but there are hints that the planet is still volcanically active today. The list of features includes pancake domes. There are scores of them – some by themselves, but many in groups. They’re almost perfectly round and flat. They can be up to a few dozen miles across, and more than half a mile tall. And their edges are steep – almost-sheer cliffs. The domes probably formed when thick molten rock bubbled to the surface. It spread out in all directions. And it continued to spread well after the lava spigot was turned off. A study published last year said that some of the pancakes dented the surface below them – perhaps one reason they’re so flat. That dimple created a moat around one of the domes, with a raised rim around the moat – a good arrangement for catching all that butter and syrup. Venus is the brilliant “evening star.” It’s quite close to the crescent Moon this evening. The Moon will stand above the planet tomorrow night; more about that on our next program. Script by Damond Benningfield

There’s a frustrating meeting of planets in the early morning sky right now. It’s frustrating because the planets are quite low in the sky in the dawn twilight, so they’re hard to see. The participants in this meet-up are Mercury, Mars, and Saturn. Tomorrow, they’ll form a tight triangle. They’ll form a straight line on Monday before they begin to separate. Mercury is the brightest of the trio, followed by Saturn, then Mars. The planets aren’t actually anywhere close to each other – they just happen to line up in the same direction. Mercury is the closest, at a distance of a bit more than a hundred million miles. Mars is more than twice that far. And Saturn is farther still – almost a billion miles. Mercury is making a small loop across the dawn before dropping back into the solar glare. It’s the closest planet to the Sun, so it never moves far from the Sun in our sky. That means our chances to see it are limited. Mars and Saturn are farther from the Sun than Earth is, so they move all the way across the sky. Both are slowly working higher into the dawn. As the months pass, they’ll rise earlier and remain in view longer. For now, Mercury, Mars, and Saturn are quite low in the east as twilight paints the sky. They’re tough to see, especially from farther north. From the U.S., the best views are from places like Miami and Honolulu. The best place to watch the meet-up is the southern hemisphere. Script by Damond Benningfield

Every time that two or more planets congregate in the night sky, fear mongers crank up the volume on their predictions of doom. They say the combined gravity of the planets will cause everything from earthquakes and storms to boils and hangnails. Don’t listen to them. All of the planets are so small or so far away that their short-term effects on Earth are negligible. Jupiter, the largest and heaviest planet in the solar system, is only one-tenth of one percent as massive as the Sun. And, on average, it’s about five times farther. When combined, those numbers tell us that Jupiter’s gravitational tug on Earth is just one-25,000th as strong as the Sun’s. The pull of the other planets is even weaker. So even if you lined up all of the planets in the same direction from Earth, their combined pull would be insignificant. That’s not the case on longer terms, though. The gravity of Jupiter and Venus change the shape of Earth’s orbit and the planet’s tilt on its axis. Mars may play a role as well. That influence creates cycles of warmer and colder climate. But the cycles play out over tens of thousands of years or longer – not over days, weeks, or even centuries. Planetary alignments are common. In fact, there’s one right now. Mars, Saturn, and Mercury are close together in the dawn twilight. But they’re so low in the sky that they’re tough to see. We’ll have more about their alignment tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

The Coma galaxy cluster is like a cosmic iceberg. What you see is impressive. But what you don’t see is even more impressive. The cluster is centered more than 300 million light-years away, and it spans 25 million light-years. It contains thousands of individual galaxies. Many of them are far bigger and heavier than our own galaxy, the Milky Way. But in the 1930s, German astronomer Fritz Zwicky found something odd. He measured the motions of individual galaxies within the cluster. They were zipping along much too fast to be held in check by the gravity of the visible galaxies – they should all fly away from each other. Zwicky concluded that something else was acting as a sort of gravitational “glue.” He called it dark matter – matter that couldn’t be seen, but that exerted a gravitational pull on the visible matter around it. It took decades to confirm that finding. And even today, we don’t know what dark matter really is. The leading idea says it’s some type of subatomic particle. But despite many years of searching, no such particle has been found. All we know for sure is that dark matter accounts for about 85 percent of all the matter in the universe – the vast hidden depths of the cosmic iceberg. The Coma Cluster is in Coma Berenices. The constellation is in the east at nightfall. It’s above brilliant Arcturus, the brightest star of Bootes, and to the lower left of Leo, the lion. Script by Damond Benningfield

Astronomers love star clusters. All the stars in a cluster were born at the same time, from the same cloud of gas and dust. So any differences in the stars are the result of their evolution, which is a result of their mass. That makes it easier to learn what’s going on inside the stars. One problem, though, is identifying which stars belong to a cluster. It takes detailed measurements of motion and brightness to separate members of the cluster from stars that just happen to line up in the same direction. An example is the Coma star cluster, in Coma Berenices. The constellation is in the east at nightfall. Under dark skies, the cluster is a good target for binoculars. The cluster is about 280 light-years away. But it spans dozens of light-years, so its stars are spread out. That makes it harder to pick out its members. And it takes big telescopes to pick out its fainter stars. So despite decades of study, astronomers are still locking down the census of stars in the Coma cluster. A study about a decade ago confirmed eight small, faint members – the first of their kind known to belong to the cluster. And another study found that about a quarter of the stars in the cluster are binary or multi-star systems. These discoveries bring the total number of stars in the Coma cluster to several dozen, with a few dozen more possibilities – members of a wide-spread stellar family. More about Coma Berenices tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

The long-lost tail of the lion climbs high across the sky at this time of year – a spray of faint stars that trails behind Leo. Today, it’s known as Coma Berenices – the hair of Queen Berenice II of Egypt. It’s the only modern constellation that represents a real person. Originally, though, it was the tuft of hair at the end of the lion’s tail. The stars came to represent Berenice about 2300 years ago. The story was invented by the court astronomer to the king of Egypt, Ptolemy III. The queen had left her beatiful locks in a temple – an offering to the gods to protect her husband, who was off at war. The hair disappeared, angering the king. So the astronomer told him that the gods had whisked the offering into the sky. But to most of the western world, the stars remained part of Leo for centuries longer. They didn’t become a separate constellation until the 1500s, when they were named for Berenice. Coma Berenices isn’t easy to find. All of its stars are faint, so you need especially dark skies to see them. Its brightest star is Beta Coma. It’s a near twin to the Sun – a little bit bigger, heavier, and brighter. Yet even it isn’t visible from light-polluted cities or suburbs. The constellation is well up in the east at nightfall. It’s above brilliant Arcturus, the brightest star of Bootes, and to the lower left of Leo – the long-lost tip of the lion’s tail. Script by Damond Benningfield

Most years, the Sun produces hundreds or thousands of sunspots – magnetic storms that look like dark splotches on its surface. From 1645 to 1715, though, sunspots all but disappeared. In many years, the number stayed in the single digits. And in some years, there were no sunspots at all. Today, that period is known as the Maunder minimum. It’s named for British astronomer Edward Maunder, who was born 175 years ago today. He wrote about the period in the late 1800s. Maunder was working at Britain’s Royal Observatory. He was assisted by his wife, Annie, who was a “computer” at the observatory – someone who did the tedious calculations. Maunder discovered a pattern in the sunspots, which wax and wane during a cycle of about 11 years. When a new cycle begins, most of the sunspots are concentrated at the Sun’s middle latitudes. As the cycle peaks, they’re concentrated closer to the equator. But he’s best known for the Maunder minimum. It occurred during the “Little Ice Age” – a period of unusual cold. That suggests a link between solar activity and Earth’s climate. But the link isn’t confirmed – it could be just a coincidence. We still don’t know what caused the sunspots to vanish. It had happened at least once before. So the mystery of the Maunder minimum remains unsolved. Script by Damond Benningfield

Gamma Cassiopeia is a busy star system. The main star is surrounding itself with a disk of gas and dust. The star is interacting with an invisible companion. And it’s building up to an impressive demise. Gamma Cas is the middle point of the letter M or W formed by the stars of Cassiopeia, which is high in the north-northwest at nightfall. Gamma Cas is the most distant member of that pattern, at 550 light-years. Its main star – the one visible to the eye alone – is about 15 times the mass of the Sun. And it’s about 20,000 times brighter than the Sun. The star spins at about a million miles an hour at its equator. That causes it to bulge outward, so it looks more like a lozenge than a ball. That high speed causes the star to fling gas from its surface, forming a disk around the star. Its companion probably is the corpse of a once mighty star. Some of the gas from the main star may fall onto the companion. Gamma Cas is only about eight million years old, yet it’s nearing its end. In a few million years more, it’s likely to explode – ending the life of this busy star. Incidentally, Gamma Cas has another name: Navi. It was bestowed in the 1960s by the crew of Apollo 1. It’s the middle name of commander Virgil Ivan Grissom spelled backward. After the crew died in a launchpad fire, NASA placed Navi on the charts used by later crews to navigate to the Moon. Script by Damond Benningfield

You might want to buckle up for this one. We’re going to take a wild ride through the universe. It’s a combination of several motions – involving our planet, our solar system, and our galaxy. First up is Earth’s motion around the Sun. Our planet’s average orbital speed is about 66,600 miles per hour. At that speed, it takes exactly one year for Earth to make one full turn. The Sun is moving as well, and it’s taking Earth and the rest of the solar system along for the ride. The Sun is about 27,000 light-years from the center of the Milky Way Galaxy. It circles around that center at almost 500,000 miles per hour. The galaxy is so huge, however, that it takes about 230 million years to complete one orbit. And that’s not the fastest motion we’re experiencing. The Milky Way belongs to a small cluster of galaxies, the Local Group. The group is being pulled toward the Virgo Cluster, which contains thousands of galaxies. And the Local Group, Virgo Cluster, and much more are being pulled in by the gravity of the Great Attractor – the center of an enormous collection of galaxies and dark matter. The Milky Way is speeding toward it at more than 1.3 million miles per hour. So while the ground beneath your feet feels steady, keep in mind that it’s on the move – tugged by the Sun, the galaxy, the Great Attractor – and perhaps even more. Script by Damond Benningfield

Iodine is special. It’s the heaviest element that’s commonly needed by living organisms. In humans, it’s used by the thyroid to produce growth-regulating hormones. It’s found in seafood and other products. The element itself is created in some of the most violent events in the universe. In fact, so were almost all of the heaviest elements – anything more substantial than iron. The elements are forged in the rapid neutron-capture process. “Seed” elements are slammed by huge amounts of neutrons – the bits of an atomic nucleus with no electric charge. That builds heavier elements, including gold, silver, uranium – and iodine. Lighter elements are forged in the hearts of stars. More-massive stars create heavier elements. But they can’t make anything heavier than iron. The element-making process shuts down, and the star explodes. The blast can produce huge numbers of neutrons, which are sent flying at high speed. They ram into the debris, creating heavier elements. But not all exploding stars produce the right conditions to make heavier elements – especially the heaviest of all. Those elements can be formed when two ultra-dense stellar corpses ram together. The merger splatters the region with neutrons. They can forge enough heavy elements to make many planets as massive as Earth. Iodine probably is made by both types of events, which sprinkle this life-giving element throughout the cosmos. Script by Damond Benningfield

The star Regulus leads the Moon across the sky tonight. The bright heart of the lion is close to the upper right of the Moon at nightfall, with the gap increasing as the hours roll by. Regulus is about 79 light-years away. That means the light you see from Regulus tonight actually left the star about 79 years ago. So when a particle of light from Regulus hits your eye, it’s ending a journey of 79 years. As with many things astronomical, though, it’s all relative. For the particle of light itself – a photon – the trip took literally no time at all. That’s because the photon was traveling at the speed of light – 670 million miles per hour. Nothing can travel faster than that. And only photons can travel at that speed. That’s because photons have no mass – they weigh nothing at all. If anything else were to travel at lightspeed, it would become infinitely massive. So physical objects are limited to just below lightspeed. As an object moves faster, time appears to slow down for it as viewed by an outside observer – its clock would tick more slowly. So if you could accelerate a starship to just a fraction below lightspeed, it could travel for thousands of years as measured by a clock back on Earth – but just a few years or even less as measured by its own clock. So as you look at Regulus tonight, remember that the photons are completing a journey of both 79 years – and no time at all. Script by Damond Benningfield

A young planet is getting greedy. It’s gobbling up gas and dust from its surroundings. And observations last summer showed that its appetite got a lot bigger – it was consuming as much as eight times more material than in the spring. The planet is known by a catalog designation – Cha 1107. That indicates it’s in the constellation Chamaeleon, which is too far south to see from the United States. It’s hundreds of light-years away. Most planets are born in disks of material that encircle newborn stars. But this one appears to be on its own. That makes it a “rogue” world. It’s roughly five to ten times the mass of Jupiter, the largest planet in our own solar system, and about three times Jupiter’s diameter. It’s encircled by its own disk of material. That’s because it’s in a giant complex of gas and dust that’s giving birth to many new stars. As it pulls in material from its disk, it gets heavier – just like a newly forming star. The planet won’t get big enough to shine as a true star. But it’s possible that it could become a “failed” star known as a brown dwarf – a sort of missing link between stars and planets. Last summer’s outburst wasn’t the first for Cha 1107. It flared up in 2016 as well. So its growth process may be choppy – short feeding frenzies between longer periods of quieter appetite. Script by Damond Benningfield

If you’re looking for a world like Tatooine, good luck. Of the more than 6,000 known planets in other star systems, fewer than 20 orbit both stars of a binary system. So those double sunsets are few and far between. Just to refresh your memory, Tatooine is the home world of Luke Skywalker in Star Wars. Such planets are called “circumbinaries” because they circle around both stars in the system. Over the past decade, astronomers have searched for such worlds in a project with a rhythmic name: Bebop – Binaries Escorted by Orbiting Planets. The project looks for tiny “wiggles” in the motions of the stars caused by orbiting planets. It’s found a few planets, with several more candidates. One of those discoveries is Bebop-3b. The system’s two stars are quite close together. One of them is similar to the Sun. The other is only about a quarter of the Sun’s mass, and a tiny fraction of its brightness. The planet is about half the mass of Jupiter, the giant of our own solar system. It orbits the two stars once every 18 months, at a bit more than Earth’s distance to the Sun. We don’t know how fast Bebop-3b rotates, so we don’t know how often it sees sunrises and sunsets. All we know for sure is that there are two of each – one featuring a bright star, the other a faint cosmic ember. The system is about 400 light-years away. It’s high overhead at nightfall – but much too faint to see without a telescope. Script by Damond Benningfield

In the lexicon of astronomy, Pollux is known a class K-zero-3 star. That tells us that the star’s surface is a little cooler and redder than the Sun’s. It tells us that the star has puffed up to many times its original size. And it tells us that the star is nearing its end. Pollux is the brightest star of Gemini. It’s quite close to the Moon tonight. Its “twin,” the star Castor, and the brilliant planet Jupiter are a little farther from the Moon. The system that astronomers use to classify stars was developed more than a century ago. It groups the stars into classes O, B, A, F, G, K, and M. That system is based on a star’s surface temperature or color – hotter stars are bluer, while cooler stars are redder. O stars are blue-white, while M stars are red or orange. Each class is subdivided using the numbers zero through nine. At K-0, Pollux is just across the line from class G – the class that includes the Sun. The classification ends with the Roman numerals one through five. A “five” means the star is in the main phase of life. A “three” means it’s moved on to the giant phase. It’s converted the hydrogen in its core to helium. Pollux is now fusing the helium to make carbon and oxygen. That change has caused it to puff up; it’s nine times the diameter of the Sun. Over time, Pollux will get even bigger, cooler, and redder. It may evolve into class M – a brilliant star at the end of its life. Script by Damond Benningfield

Jupiter is the “big boy” of the solar system. It’s more than twice the mass of all the other planets combined. In many other star systems, though, Jupiter wouldn’t seem quite so impressive. Astronomers have discovered hundreds of planets that are heavier than Jupiter – up to 80 times Jupiter’s mass. Astronomers aren’t sure how such monster planets get to be so heavy. But they have a couple of main ideas. One says they grow from the mergers of smaller planets. The other says it depends on the environment in which a planet is born. Almost all planets take shape in disks of gas and dust around infant stars. The more material there is in the disk, the more there is for making planets. But there’s a limit on how massive a planet can become. Anything more than about 30 times the mass of Jupiter might become a brown dwarf – an intermediate step between planets and stars. And at more than 80 times Jupiter’s mass, it becomes a true star. The heavy planets don’t get much bigger than Jupiter, no matter how massive they are. As an object gains mass its gravity gets stronger. That squeezes it tighter, making it more compact. So while these “super-Jupiter” planets might outweigh Jupiter, they’d look a lot like the big boy of the solar system. Look for Jupiter near the Moon tonight. It looks like a brilliant star, so you can’t miss it. The twin stars of Gemini are close by, and we’ll have more about that tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

Elnath has dual citizenship. Officially, it’s the second-brightest star of Taurus, so it’s known as Beta Tauri. It marks the tip of one of the bull’s horns. But it’s also known as Gamma Aurigae – one of the bright stars that outlines Auriga, the charioteer. That designation is un-official – it’s been considered defunct for almost a century. The dual identity is a result of changes in how astronomers define the constellations. At first, the constellations were vaguely defined. Each one encompassed the connect-the-dots pattern that outlined the classical figure. But there weren’t hard borders. In 1603, German astronomer Johannes Bayer published a new naming scheme for all the stars. In it, he assigned Elnath to both Taurus and Auriga. That worked fine for centuries. But in the early 20th century, astronomers decided to assign precise boundaries for each constellation – like the borders of states or nations. Elnath was just inside the border of Taurus. So, officially, Elnath belongs to the bull. But it still forms part of the classical outline of Auriga – giving Elnath a dual citizenship. Elnath is about 130 light-years away. It’s about five times the size and mass of the Sun, and it’s hundreds of times brighter. It’s easy to pick out tonight because it’s close to the Moon. As night falls, they’re no more than one or two degrees apart – right along the border between the bull and the charioteer. Script by Damond Benningfield

Just about every star is born in a cluster – a family of dozens to thousands of stars. Most of these families fall apart, with the individual stars going their own way. The Sun’s cluster, for example, dissipated billions of years ago. One cluster that’s in the process of dissipating is the Hyades, which outlines the face of Taurus, the bull. It’s the nearest cluster, at a distance of about 150 light-years. Today, the Hyades contains several hundred stars – probably less than half its original population. The other stars were pulled away by the gravitational tug of the rest of the galaxy. The cluster’s heaviest stars reside in its tightly packed center. None of them is much more than about twice as massive as the Sun. That’s because of the cluster’s age – 625 million years. All of its heavier stars have already burned out. All that remains is their dead cores. The least-massive stars have migrated to the outskirts of the cluster. Over the next few hundred million years, those stars will all drift away. That will leave only a sad little remnant of this impressive family of stars. The Hyades stands to the lower left of the Moon this evening. Its stars form a “V” shape. The brightest star in the outline is bright orange Aldebaran, the bull’s eye. But it’s not a member of the cluster – it simply lines up in the same direction as the stars of the Hyades. We’ll have more about the Moon and Taurus tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

For the kings of ancient Egypt, the Sun was much more than just a glowing orb in the daytime sky. It was the god Ra, one of the most important of all the gods. Ra was a creator of life, the king’s father, and a representation of the king as a god himself. So the kings of the Fifth Kingdom, about 4500 years ago, built temples to honor the Sun. Archaeologists have recently excavated about half of the largest one yet discovered – a massive complex that might have been topped by a spot for watching the Sun and stars. The temple is named “Joy of Ra” or “Joy of the Heart of Ra.” It’s at Abu Gorab, about 10 miles from Cairo, near the ancient capital, Memphis. It was built by King Nyuserre, who reigned for two or three decades. At the time, the kings identified themselves with Ra – as eternal gods. So the temple was a place to honor both Ra and the king. Excavations have uncovered two large enclosures. The upper level was discovered 125 years ago, but the lower one was found just recently. The upper level included an altar for making offerings to Ra. And one end featured an obelisk that would have towered high above the courtyard and the surrounding landscape. It had a perfect east-west alignment – the directions of the rising and setting Sun. The recent work also uncovered a stairway to the roof. The rooftop probably served as an observatory – helping Nyuserre follow his “father” across the sky. Script by Damond Benningfield

An astronomer greets visitors to a science museum in Canberra, Australia. He’s made of riveted iron plates, and he stands atop a wide ring, gazing skyward through a smaller ring in his right hand. He’s the last remnant of an historic telescope that was destroyed in a massive wildfire. The fire blazed across Australia in January of 2003. It destroyed most of Mount Stromlo Observatory, one of the major astronomy research centers in the southern hemisphere. The fire consumed five telescopes, plus a laboratory where scientists and engineers built astronomical instruments. One of the casualties was the Yale-Columbia Telescope. It was a 26-inch refractor – a type of telescope that uses lenses to gather and focus starlight. It was built in 1924, and had been operating at Mount Stromlo for half a century. Astronomers had used it to measure the distances to stars, to study double stars, and more. After the fire, an Australian science institute commissioned a sculptor, Tim Wetherell, to create an artwork from the telescope’s remains. The result was “The Astronomer” – the piece on display in Canberra. The figure stands on a setting circle – a wide ring that indicated where the telescope was pointing. It has numbers at 10-degree intervals, from zero to 180. The astronomer is holding a smaller version of the ring in his hand – continuing to look at the stars long after the telescope’s demise. Script by Damond Benningfield

The crescent Moon and the planet Venus team up in the evening twilight tonight. Venus is the brilliant “evening star.” It’s below the Moon, and it sets by the time the sky gets fully dark. Venus is enveloped by an unbroken layer of clouds – one of the reasons the planet looks so bright. The clouds are a few dozen miles above the surface. And they’re speedy – they race around the planet at up to 335 miles per hour – twice as fast as the winds in a category-5 hurricane. They make a full turn around Venus every four days. That’s more than 50 times faster than the planet is turning on its axis. That high-speed motion is called super-rotation. No one knows for sure what causes it. A study a few years ago said it might be powered by the Sun. The clouds are hottest at the equator, where the sunlight is strongest. The hotter atmosphere flows outward, toward the poles and toward the nightside – reaching super-fast speeds. Super-rotation doesn’t extend all the way to the surface, though. Below the clouds, the wind speed drops dramatically. At the surface, there’s almost no wind at all. But the atmosphere is quite dense – more than 90 times the density of Earth’s atmosphere. Any wind at all exerts a lot of pressure, so it can erode the surface. That can wear away mountains, and gouge channels that look like they were carved by flowing water – all below the speedy clouds of the planet Venus. Script by Damond Benningfield

A galaxy cluster is like a cosmic blender. It stirs up the galaxies and the space between them. Nothing is left undisturbed. A perfect example is the Virgo Cluster. It consists of more than 1500 individual galaxies, centered about 55 million light-years away. Most of them are fairly small and faint. But a few are monsters – many times the size and mass of our home galaxy, the Milky Way. The cluster’s galaxies are packed fairly close together. So the gravity of each galaxy pulls at its neighbors. That distorts the shape of some of the neighbors, making them lopsided. It also causes big clouds of gas to collapse and give birth to new stars. And it pulls many stars out of the galaxies, into the space between them. In fact, up to one-tenth of the stars in the cluster may be roaming through intergalactic space. The cluster’s brightest galaxy is Messier 49. It was the first to be discovered, in 1771. It’s a giant elliptical, so it looks like a fat, fuzzy rugby ball. It’s much bigger than the Milky Way, and many times its mass. And a supermassive black hole inhabits its heart. The biggest and heaviest member of the cluster is Messier 87, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow. The Virgo Cluster is centered along the border between Virgo and Leo. That spot is low in the east at nightfall and climbs high across the sky later on. Many of the galaxies are easy targets for small telescopes. Script by Damond Benningfield

Snow blanketed the launch pad, and the rocketeers sipped hot malted milk to ward off the chill. But the launch they conducted a century ago today turned the idea of space travel from fantasy to possibility – and provided the first small step toward the Moon. The rocket was designed by Robert Goddard, a physics professor at Clark University in Massachusetts. Goddard was brilliant but secretive. He refused to collaborate with other scientists, and seldom even talked about his research. Instead, he spent his time building, testing, and flying rockets. At the time he started, all rockets were powered by solid fuels, such as gunpowder. But solid fuels are inefficient and hard to control. So Goddard built a rocket powered by liquid fuels – gasoline and liquid oxygen. It was a potent mixture that provided far more energy per pound than solids. Goddard and his wife and assistants launched the first liquid-fueled rocket in history on March 16th, 1926. It was airborne for just two and a half seconds, and climbed just 41 feet. But it proved that liquid fuels could propel a rocket skyward. Goddard spent two more decades experimenting with rockets. German engineers used many of his innovations in the V-2, which bombarded England during World War II. Transplanted to the United States after the war, many of these engineers developed the rockets that boosted satellites into space – and sent astronauts to the Moon. Script by Damond Benningfield

A three-way tug-of-war isn’t a common sight – unless you look toward the constellation Leo. Three galaxies there are tugging at one another, producing some spectacular results. The galaxies are M65, M66, and NGC 3628 – the Leo Triplet. All three galaxies are about the same size as our home galaxy, the Milky Way. And each may resemble the Milky Way – a beautiful spiral with a long “bar” of stars across its middle. The triplets are close enough together that the gravity of each galaxy exerts a strong pull on the others. That’s given M66 a slightly “wonky” look. The galaxy’s core is a little off-center. Its spiral arms are loosely wound, and they aren’t symmetrical. And the arms are lined with knots of starbirth. Some of the stars in these regions are huge. Such a star burns out quickly, then explodes as a supernova. And since 1973, we’ve seen five supernovas in M66 – compared to zero in the Milky Way. We see NGC 3628 edge-on, so it’s hard to know its exact shape. What we do see is a lane of dark dust sandwiched between brighter layers. We also see a “tail” that’s 300,000 light-years long – three times the size of the galaxy itself. It’s a ribbon of stars pulled out by the other galaxies in their ongoing “tug-of-war.” Leo is in the east at nightfall. The triplet is to the upper right of Denebola, the star at the lion’s tail. It’s an easy target for a small telescope. Script by Damond Benningfield

It sounds like a toddler’s attempt to say “Friday” or, even better, a day to gorge on apple crumb or coconut cream. Alas, “Pi Day” is something completely different. It’s a commemoration of a mathematical constant that’s represented by the Greek letter pi – one of the most important quantities in science. Pi is the ratio of a circle’s diameter to its circumference. When it’s rounded off to two digits, it’s 3.14 – the numerical equivalent of March 14th. Astronomers use pi to calculate the volume and density of a star or planet, the details of an orbit, and much more. Other scientists use it as well. But pi is an “irrational” number. That means that no matter how long you calculate its exact value, you never reach the end – whether you go to a thousand decimal places, a million, or rbrm eleventy-jillion. There’s never a conclusion, and no group of numbers ever repeats. Mathematicians have used various techniques to try to calculate the exact value, without success. The record so far is more than a hundred trillion places to the right of the decimal. Trying to calculate an exact value has been an important plot point in science fiction. Any time a computer is getting too uppity, it’s commanded to calculate pi to the last digit. That impossible task overloads the computer, allowing the heroes to regain control. Whether we’ll need it to rein in A-I – well, have a slice of pie – the tasty variety – while you ponder it. Script by Damond Benningfield

To the eye alone, the brightest star in the night sky is Sirius, the leading light of Canis Major, the big dog. It’s well up in the south at nightfall – a brilliant beacon less than nine light-years away. If we could shift the sensitivity of our eyes to shorter wavelengths, the brightest star would appear a little below Sirius. Adhara is already the second-brightest star in the constellation. But it produces most of its energy in the extreme ultraviolet – wavelengths that are far too short to see with the human eye. At those wavelengths, Adhara would be the brightest object in the entire night sky. The star is an ultraviolet powerhouse because it’s tens of thousands of degrees hotter than the Sun. The hotter an object, the more U-V it produces. And Adhara is huge – more than 10 times the Sun’s diameter. So there’s a lot of real estate for beaming its radiation into space. The U-V zaps molecules of gas and dust anywhere close to the star, splitting them apart and making them glow. But the star has been around long enough that it’s already cleared out most of the space around it. More than four million years ago, Adhara was much closer to the Sun than it is today. That made it the brightest star at visible wavelengths as well. It shined as brightly as Venus, the morning or evening star. But Adhara’s motion through the galaxy has carried the star much farther from us – allowing Sirius to outshine this sizzling star. Script by Damond Benningfield

For Charles Messier, star clusters were a nuisance. The French astronomer was mainly interested in comets. In the 18th century, finding a comet could bring fame and fortune – kings sometimes awarded medals and fat stipends for their discovery. Through a telescope, star clusters could resemble comets. Messier and others might spend time following a cluster, only to find out that it wasn’t the prize. So Messier compiled a catalog of clusters and similar nuisances – a list of objects to ignore. Four of the clusters follow a narrow path near Canis Major, the big dog: M46, 47, 48, and 50 – a Messier “highway.” Although they’re close together in our sky, the clusters are not close together in space. Their distances range from about 1600 light-years to more than five thousand. So there’s no relationship among them. They appear close together because they all lie along the Milky Way – the glowing outline of the disk of the Milky Way Galaxy. In that direction, we’re looking into the most densely populated region of the galaxy, so we see many more stars and star clusters – including the “pesky” clusters cataloged by Charles Messier. The clusters are in the southeastern quadrant of the sky as night falls. Look for Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky, due south. The clusters spread out to the left and upper left of Sirius. All of them are easy targets for binoculars. Script by Damond Benningfield

Winter brings out the big dogs – some of the most prominent constellations of all. And one of those really is a dog: Canis Major, the big dog. It’s best known for Sirius, the Dog Star – the brightest star in the night sky. It’s a third of the way up the southern sky at nightfall. But there’s much more to Canis Major than just Sirius. It includes several bright stars, most of which are below or to the right of Sirius. When you link them up, they do form the outline of a dog. Like all constellations, Canis Major consists of more than just a connect-the-dots pattern of stars, though. It covers a patch of sky that includes everything within its borders. And in that area, you can find several deep-sky objects – objects like star clusters, which are far beyond most of the individual stars visible in Canis Major. Perhaps the best known is Messier 41. It’s not far below Sirius, and it’s an easy target for binoculars. It’s about 2300 light-years away, and includes a hundred or more stars. The cluster probably is about 200 million years old. At that age, its biggest, heaviest stars have expired. They’ve left behind small, dense corpses known as white dwarfs. The next-heaviest stars soon will follow the same path. Those stars have puffed up to become red giants. They’re easily visible through binoculars – sparkling red and orange jewels along the “collar” of the big dog. More about Canis Major tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

A magazine that first hit newsstands 100 years ago today was unlike anything readers had seen before. Its cover featured a brightly-colored painting of people ice-skating on a comet as it zoomed past Saturn. Its founding editor, Hugo Gernsback, called it “a new sort of magazine” – “a magazine of ‘scientifiction'” – a genre known today as science fiction. Amazing Stories was the first magazine dedicated solely to the genre. Its debut issue, which was dated April 1926, carried reprints of stories by Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, Edgar Allen Poe, and others. The story titles included “The Man from the Atom” and “The Thing from – Beyond.” The magazine was an instant hit. Within a year, monthly circulation was at 150,000. Other publishers quickly caught on, and began publishing many more sci-fi magazines. Over the decades, they included such titles as Fantastic, Astonishing, and Astounding. They featured many of the major figures of science fiction’s “golden age.” Their inventive stories and eye-catching covers caught the attention of lots of youngsters. The magazines inspired many of them to pursue careers in astronomy, physics, engineering, and related fields. They also inspired future filmmakers, who expanded “scientifiction” far beyond the printed page. Few science-fiction magazines have survived. But their influence is still felt today – on Earth – and beyond. Script by Damond Benningfield

A future super-giant “onion” perches close to the Moon at dawn tomorrow. It’s the star Antares, the bright heart of the scorpion – one of the most impressive stars in the galaxy. Antares is a supergiant. It’s roughly a dozen times as massive as the Sun, and hundreds of times wider. Because it’s so heavy, gravity squeezes its core tightly. That revs up the nuclear fusion in the core. Like all stars, those reactions initially fused hydrogen to make helium. In the Sun, hydrogen fusion will last about 10 billion years. In Antares, though, it lasted a little more than 10 million years. When the hydrogen in the core was gone, the core shrank, making it hotter – hot enough for the helium to fuse to make carbon and oxygen. That process will last about one million years. Then the carbon will fuse to make heavier elements, and so on. Each step takes less time than the one before. In the final step, silicon will fuse to make iron – a step that takes just a few days. The lighter elements won’t all go away, though. Instead, the “ash” from each step will form layers around the core – like an onion. But that structure won’t last. The core can’t get hot enough to fuse the iron. Gravity will win out, and the core will collapse – forming an ultra-dense neutron star. Everything outside the core will blast outward at a few percent of the speed of light. Supergiant Antares will explode as a supernova – an impressive end for an impressive star. Script by Damond Benningfield

Canopus would be a terrible neighbor. The star is big, bright, and hot, so it might blow away any planet-making materials around nearby stars. Even worse, it may be destined to explode. That would zap any existing planets with radiation – perhaps endangering any life in nearby star systems. Canopus is the second-brightest star in the night sky. At this time of year, it’s visible from the southern third of the United States in early evening. It’s low in the south, well below Sirius, the brightest star. Canopus is at least eight times the mass of the Sun. So even though it’s billions of years younger than the Sun, it’s already completed the main phase of life. Within a few million years, its core will collapse, perhaps forming an ultra-dense neutron star. If so, then its outer layers will blast into space as a supernova. Such an outburst would produce enormous amounts of X-rays and gamma rays – the most powerful forms of energy. That could strip away the ozone layer of any planet within a few dozen light-years, subjecting the surface to high levels of radiation. So far, we know of only one planet within that range where conditions are most suitable for life. The planet itself isn’t likely to host life. But any big moons might be more comfortable homes – at least until the demise of Canopus. Luckily for us, Canopus is 300 light-years away. So Earth is well outside the “danger zone” of this not-so-neighborly neighbor. Script by Damond Benningfield